You See, But You Do Not Observe
by FullMetal Alchemistress
Summary: ((POST REICHENBACK FALLS)) Sherlock returns but not in the way John originally thinks... ONESHOT


Sherlock's ears perked up when he heard the door to 221B Baker Street open and close quietly and slowly. He knew Mrs. Hudson was still in her apartment—he'd just been down to see her less than an hour ago. Maybe. He glanced at the time in the toolbar of John's laptop and noted that it had actually been closer to four hours.

He quickly closed out his research and shut the laptop, standing as the footsteps journeyed closer to the door to the flat. John didn't notice him standing in the small kitchen when he first walked in, and Sherlock made no move to make his presence known. He'd never admit it to anyone else—and he was positive Mycroft would be the only who could ever figure it out—but he was afraid. He'd been "dead" for the last six months and he could quickly deduce where John had just been based purely on his demeanor—Sherlock's empty grave.

John's eyes drifted across the room as he pushed himself away from the door to kick off his shoes. Sherlock noted the way their eyes met once, then twice, then a third time before a strange look passed over John's face. But as soon as it caught Sherlock's attention, it was gone half a second later. He could typically read John like a book—but that look was new and unfamiliar to Sherlock.

John moved to stand across from Sherlock at the kitchen table. He pulled the laptop closer and opened it in one swift motion. "On a new case?" he asked casually.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stood a little straighter. "As a matter of fact, yes." Sherlock pulled out his phone and began silently typing away. "Three children have gone missing within the last two weeks."

John picked up the newspaper he'd discarded that morning and flipped to a particular page. "You mean this?" John asked, pointing to a small article. "I read about it this morning. A bit unfortunate."

"Well, read it again, but this time, pay attention to the details and tell me what you think." Sherlock began to pace in the kitchen, his web search taking him nowhere. "The children were all old enough that simply running away is always an option."

"Yeah," John agreed, eyes skimming over the short article again as he filled a glass with water at the sink, "but there's got to be a connection if _you're _looking into this. Give me a reason to believe this is worth my time." John took his glass to the living room and sat back in his chair, his gaze fixed on his tall friend.

This is it, Sherlock thought. "You don't have to help. I can solve the case on my own," Sherlock said quietly, his tone even. When John didn't respond, Sherlock moved for the door. "I'm going out for a bit." He made it down to the door when he heard John's glass hit the wall and shatter. John hadn't reacted much to seeing his friend not dead. Sherlock knew he'd have to cope somehow.

He pulled his coat tighter around himself as he hailed a cab and headed for Scotland Yard. There were some case files he needed to request from Lestrade directly. When he returned, he didn't expect to find the broken glass still in the corner of the kitchen, nor did he expect to find John absent from the entire floor of the flat. Sherlock tilted his head back when he heard footsteps in the room above him.

"Dammit!" A crash shook the walls and Sherlock pressed his lips together. He was torn between investigating John's tantrum and leaving him alone. The latter eventually won out when his thoughts drifted back to the case, half the files he needed still in his hands.

He carefully shed his coat and scarf and dropped down onto the couch, flipping slowly through the files and traveling slowly into a deep thinking state. He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there, but when he looked up from the papers spread out in front of him, John was sitting in the chair across the room staring at him.

"You really should clean up the glass—you know how Mrs. Hudson can get and it's really not polite in her old age to make her clean that up," Sherlock muttered, eyes returning to his lap.

"What have you got there?" John asked in a tone that Sherlock thought meant he was avoiding the suggestion. Really, Sherlock thought he was getting off easy here. At least John hadn't rejected him completely—not that Sherlock ever thought it was in John's nature to do so. But still, he deserved worse.

Even though it was all just to save John's life.

Sherlock dropped the files to the floor and flipped himself on the couch so that he was lying back on the couch, hands under his chin. "Files I got from Lestrade."

"Lestrade," John nodded in mock understanding. "Right."

"I'm waiting for him to bring me the ones I'm not supposed to see," Sherlock continued. "He should be here when he gets off in, oh—" Sherlock glanced at his watch. "—Five minutes. If not sooner. I seem to have lost track of time."

"Right," John repeated.

Sherlock sat up. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"Saying what?"

"Saying _right _like you—I don't know. Like you don't care or don't believe me."

In a sudden burst of motion, John threw the newspaper on the floor and jumped up. "Sherlock—I thought I could—could _handle _this, but I really just can't. Sherlock, you've been—"

Without knocking, the door opened and Lestrade entered with a stack of manila folders in his hands. He nodded once at John and then turn towards the couch, dropping the files into Sherlock's lap. "That's all I could sneak out of the station, you'll have to stop by tomorrow afternoon for the rest."

"Well, that's a bit inconvenient," Sherlock grumbled, cracking open the first folder. "I'll be in tomorrow morning."

Lestrade put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "Afternoon. Can't be any sooner. I'm busy." Lestrade's gaze shifted over to a silent John, who was standing there staring at him, face deathly white. "You alright?"

John's jaw worked as he struggled to form words, his eyes flickering between the other two men. Finally they settled on Lestrade. "You can see him, too?"


End file.
